Intersections
by payroo
Summary: Encounters between one mage and another: Jowan the blood mage and the Grey Warden Surana. What has passed between them and what the future holds. The Grey Warden, try as he might, cannot get his first love out of his life. One-sided PC/Jowan, later PC/Zev
1. First Crossing

It started when he was first brought to the Circle, a shivering, scrawny elf plucked from the alienage orphanage, told he was dangerous and a threat to all. In between ducking the frighteningly large armored men and staring with awe at the fire coming from the robed people's hands, he had managed to irritate the other children. Their grievance was the usual one; he was a filthy knife-ear who didn't deserve to live in the same tower as them and as such deserved a beating. He had huddled in a corner, arms over his head, as the other young mages-in-training kicked away.

"Why don't you just leave him alone?"

A small burst of flame had set the bully ringleader's hair afire and he ran off screaming, to find the nearest Templar. The others ran off behind their routed leader, swearing retribution soon enough.

He had cautiously uncovered his head, ventured a peek upward. A shem boy with scraggly black hair and a somewhat wilting smile stood over him.

"I'm Jowan. They used to bother me too until I beat them all in learning how to cast flame."

Before he could reply in turn or thank him, the children had returned, this time with a larger force.

"Right! Who wants to set their hair on fire?" Jowan had shouted, but he could see how the other boy trembled.

Later, when they had received a hefty beating for "abusing magic" on top of their bruises from the melee, Jowan had complained loudly about the many injustices done to him and how it must be on account of jealousy of his skill.

He had listened to his tirade with a smile. Suddenly the Circle seemed a lot less frightening.

Jowan had found his best friend that day.

But he, he had found his first love.


	2. Beginnings of Divergence

The Templars and senior mages say nothing and discourage all questions. But really, there is nothing to ask for all already know what has transpired.

Owen, one of the few other elves in the Tower, is not at the communal breakfast this morning. He was never really close to him, but still, they had been on decent terms.

His usual seat is empty, though the traces of porridge on the table where he used to eat are still there. He always was a messy eater.

Jowan, panting for breath, plops himself into his customary seat next to him.

"Did you hear about what happened? To Owen?" he whispers, eyes lingering on the empty chair. "Lars said he saw when they took him out of his bed last night."

He listens in thoughtful silence, as he always does, sipping his breakfast while Jowan proceeds to wolf it down.

"The Harrowing… it had to be that! Maker, I'll admit I'm terrified when it's our turn… and it could be any time too! But I'm sure you'll do fine. First Enchanter Irving likes you." Jowan visibly slumps as the unspoken sentence hangs in the air. _And not me_.

He looks up at Jowan. His fingers itch to wipe away a stray bit of porridge from the stubble that the human mage had been so proud of cultivating, but he quells this urge. He's used to suppressing this kind of thing by now. "Don't worry," he says with a small smile. "You're one of the best mages our age. I'm sure there's nothing you can't handle."

Jowan's usual droopy expression perks up a bit at the corners at this bit of flattery. There is truth in it; his raw magical ability is above average. Whether their handlers approved of his mental resilience, on the other hand…

"Well, I'll see you later. I have to go help Owain clean the stockroom, _again_. It's really unfair. I mean, it was hardly my fault I just happened to walk in the library when they were sorting those forbidden books."

"I know, I know," he humors him, the smile on his lips spreading uncontrollably. "Just like the time you accidentally saw the answer key—"

"Hey! Are you my best friend or not?" Jowan playfully swats at his red hair. "Anyways, I mustn't be late or I'll _really _get it."

He watches his retreating back with a strange sort of longing in his heart. It's quite ridiculous really. Jowan isn't the sort to fall in love with; bumbling, whiny, talented-yet-somehow-inept Jowan. Yet despite his shortcomings (or perhaps because of them), he can't manage to ever get him off his mind. He knows it will never be reciprocated; he's seen Jowan staring open-mouthed at the younger Chantry sisters and female mages enough times to know that.

He had resigned himself to live a chaste life, at his best friend's side as merely a friend, never daring to wish for anything further. But he is suddenly filled with a burning urgency, even if the results are disastrous, to make his feelings known. As Jowan had just reminded him, the Harrowing could come at any time for either of them, and it is entirely possible they may not survive.

At worst, Jowan will be slightly uncomfortable, but he can just play it off as a joke. In that case, he should approach the topic very obliquely and delicately, gently prodding to see if there's any chance, any chance at all…

Of what? He doesn't even know what to expect. Romances aren't exactly encouraged among mages or the Chantry sisters and Templars they live among.

He imagines how they would hold hands, how Jowan would awkwardly fuss about and fidget and yet be grudgingly sweet about the whole matter. The thought reddens his face for the rest of breakfast, and throughout all his spell-casting exercises of the morning.

When he finally sees Jowan again at lunch, his heart races with nervous anticipation. He has secretly yearned for this moment for years.

"Jowan, have you ever… you know, _liked_ anyone?" Immediately after the words leave his mouth, he inwardly cringes. What a way to sound adolescent, despite being nearly twenty. Being raised in the Circle was definitely not good for his emotional and social development.

Jowan's face turns pink beneath his stubble, and his heart skips a beat. Could it be?

"Why do you ask?" Jowan says, much too quickly. The nervous fingering of his utensils does not escape his watchful eye.

"I was just wondering if you'd found someone in this tower." He makes sure not to get ahead of himself. He knows the greater his expectations are, the greater his disappointment will be.

To his confusion, Jowan's face splits into a sheepish grin, hand awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. It's unbearably endearing, and it's all he can do to resist grabbing the human right then and there and kissing him.

"All right, I give up. You're good. How long have you known for?"

"Pardon?" He raises his eyebrows.

"I should have known I can't keep anything from you. Her name's Lily." Jowan's eyes start to soften, and his sheepish grin turns into a dreamy one.

"Oh." His mouth is dry and his head is suddenly spinning. He clutches the edge of the table and breathes very slowly and deeply. Luckily Jowan does not notice, as he's busy staring off into space. "What's she like?"

"I was hoping you'd ask me that!" Jowan's entire frame straightens from its usual slumped posture. "Oh Maker, she's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen! She has such lovely eyes and her hair is so soft…"

He watches him talk, not really listening to his words, seeing how animated he becomes at the mere thought of this Lily. He seems happier than he's ever seen him before.

His heart breaks silently and unheard within his chest. He finishes eating his lunch, makes some vague and encouraging vulgar comment about Jowan's new girlfriend, and leaves to go incinerate haystacks for the rest of the day.

That night, when he is on his way to the bedroom they share, he hears Jowan's voice coming from a storage closet.

"Oh, Lily, _Lily…_"

He can't help but silently creep to the side of the door, peek in and see Jowan kiss the brunette girl ever so tenderly. He can't look away when their kissing grows in intensity, when a low moan escapes from the girl's throat and she begins tearing at Jowan's clothing, when he lowers her onto the ground as he gently removes her vestments, when he places his body over her own…

He tears himself away, returns to the bedroom he and Jowan share, tries his best not to look at the empty bed across from his.

He imagines what it would be like if he had been the one Jowan kissed so dearly, if he could fill that empty bed with Jowan gently lowering himself onto—_into—_him. His face flushes and a deep need grows in his lower belly. His fingers desperately and clumsily find their way between his legs, giving him release even as he silently cries into his pillow.


	3. Separation

_"The real dangers of the Fade are preconceptions... careless trust... __pride__."_

He awakes with a start, the words of the "mouse" still ringing in his ears.

"Are you alright? I was worried you wouldn't wake up." Jowan peers down at him anxiously. He permits his heart to flutter just a bit at the concern on his friend's face. A foolish indulgence. "Although the Templars said it was the cleanest Harrowing they've ever seen. Congratulations, I suppose. If only mine was going to be as… ah, never mind."

Surana sits up, struck by the deep shadows under Jowan's eyes. There is a furrow forming between his eyebrows and his hair is limp.

"I'm supposed to tell you to go speak with First Enchanter Irving. But afterwards, there's something I'd like to talk to you about." Jowan's tone is low, nervous.

"Of course. I'll see you later then."

He frowns to himself. Over the past few months Jowan had been far from his usual self. His friend has been pale and shiftless, constantly rubbing at the shadows forming under his eyes. He assumes that Jowan's relationship with Lily takes up much time, and so his former sleep schedule has been disrupted.

He doesn't want to think that it may be something darker, something to do with how Jowan has conspicuously stopped rolling up his sleeves before herbalism laboratory, how Jowan evades the Templars with particular unease. No, he won't have those thoughts. Of course Jowan avoids the Templars out of fear his relationship will be discovered.

He nods and smiles through his meeting with First Enchanter Irving and is dutifully courteous to the Grey Warden, but his thoughts linger on his friend. The Grey Warden speaks of the world outside falling to Blight, but he simply cannot bring himself to care, not when the Tower encompasses his whole world and Jowan is the only thing in it that matters.

As he leaves the Warden's room, Jowan stands outside, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. "Come on, we can't talk here," he whispers, and turns to go. He follows without a second thought.

Lily is standing there, though he is not supposed to know who she is yet. Of course he has never breathed a word to Jowan about witnessing _them_. She's pretty enough, he supposes. Pretty enough to ensnare his best friend, anyhow. She smiles politely at him from under her fringe of chestnut hair. He can almost feel Jowan brightening up beside him.

"This is Lily. Remember that girl I told you about?" Jowan eyes him expectantly. Surana suppresses a start of surprise when he realizes that Jowan is seeking his approval, his blessing.

The irony doesn't escape him, and for a moment he is paralyzed, something dark and possessive within him stirring and tempting him to be cruel. But with a swallow, he fights it down and turns instead to glibness.

He grins and says to her, "You have my condolences." Jowan lightly punches his shoulder as Lily titters.

"Anyway, as I'm sure you can tell by her robes, Lily's a Chantry initiate. Which is a… bit of a problem, you see…"

He raises an eyebrow. He had not even noticed, otherwise concerned as he has been. "A _bit_? Jowan, this is serious, not just for you—"

"I know, I know! That's why we're running away. We'll find a farm or something, and live simply! No more magic."

No more magic. Jowan intends to leave the Tower. To leave him, indefinitely. His stomach clenches at the thought.

"Jowan, are you certain you want to do this? You must be so close to your own Harrowing, and even if you manage to get away before the Templars cut you down you'll never be able to come back." Never be able to see me again, are the words he doesn't say.

Jowan puts a hand on his shoulder, and Surana flushes ever so slightly at the touch. "My friend, they're not planning on having my Harrowing any time soon," he says finally, mouth twisted wryly. "And why would I ever want to come back to this prison?"

"Dear, we should tell him now," Lily wheedles, tugging at Jowan's sleeve. Surana cannot help but spitefully notice how mousy she is on closer inspection.

"They're… they're going to make me Tranquil!" Jowan's voice cracks. "They're going to take away everything that's _me _from me—all my dreams, my emotions, my love for Lily!"

"Don't be ridiculous," he says automatically, though his stomach is now filled with icy dread. "Why would they make you Tranquil? You're one of the best students!"

"Says you, Ser Top-of-the-Class," Jowan mutters in something of an undertone. It hurts more than he thinks it will, and it must have shown on his face, for Jowan quickly says, "Sorry. But they… they think I'm a blood mage."

He laughs, nervously. He refuses to look at the scars crisscrossing Jowan's hand on his shoulder, refuses to think of his recent changed behavior. "Blood magic? You? Why would they think that?"

"I've no idea, but Lily saw the signed papers on Irving's desk authorizing the Rite of Tranquility. Please, as your friend, I'm begging you to help us."

There's no need to beg, for Surana cannot refuse him anything. But first, he has to make one thing clear.

"Jowan, the accusations aren't true, right?" He looks his friend straight in the eyes.

"Of course not!" Jowan looks hurt. "You… you're my best friend! Wouldn't you notice if I started, I don't know, _sacrificing _things?"

"I'm sorry, forget I said anything," he says, with no small amount of relief. Jowan isn't the sort to lie very well, and he trusts him completely. "So, what's the plan?"

They battle their way past the assorted beasties and creatures in the underground vaults, and sure enough, they finally reach the place where all the phylacteries are kept. So many crystal vials of blood. So many apprentice's lives, subject to termination on a moment's notice.

"There, that's mine," and Jowan's eyes burn with something manic as he seizes the vial of his own blood. He turns to Surana and smiles, really smiles at him. He feels his throat go tight. "Thank you so much, my friend. I couldn't have asked for more from you. If only you could come with us—"

"I… I wish I could," he stammers. "But they've already taken mine to Denerim…"

Jowan barely notices his response, so elated is he to be off the leash at last. He embraces Lily and Surana finds himself staring at the floor.

"We should go, quickly," he says, much too soon, but Jowan breaks his kiss and hand in hand with the woman he loves, all but prances out the door—

Straight into the arms of the waiting Templars.

He defends Jowan to the last, braving the Knight Commander's frosty glare, even the weary sadness and disappointment in the First Enchanter's eyes. He maintains his friend's innocence and right to happiness up until the moment he is sprayed with Jowan's blood and bowled over with the Templars in the wave of raw power that follows.

He wakes up wishing he hadn't.

He watches the Templars condemn Lily and he makes a nominal effort to defend her, but the fight has left her, and she is a broken doll. He wonders absently if he looks like that too.


	4. Branch out Branch in

At night, when Alistair snores loudly from his bedroll and Morrigan recedes to her separate campfire, Alim lies awake and stares at the top of his tent. The question he is turning over in his mind is the same as that which has plagued him since leaving the Tower.

_Why?_

Why would Jowan risk losing everything—his best friend, his lover, even his life—for a forbidden power? He had never been the ambitious type; he was the bumbling one, the complaining one who always managed to scrape by on a combination of natural talent, luck, and help from his best friend.

That last point is a particularly contentious internal debate in Alim's mind, now. All those times Jowan had remarked on his friend's talent, his skill, how he was the top of the class... Alim had taken it as praise and allowed himself to revel in Jowan's admiration, but it is only now, separated from Jowan for the first time since coming to the Tower, that he notices the undercurrent of jealousy that had always been present in his best friend's compliments.

Jowan had always been terrified of failure, of being cut down by the Templars for not making the cut. And when his best friend was the apple of the First Enchanter's eye…

He turns around in his bedroll, face buried in his pillow. As much as he hates it, he is much closer to his answer than he would care to admit.

He stays at a polite distance from his other companions, laughing occasionally at Alistair's bad jokes, suffering Morrigan's ranting about the Circle and Leliana's preaching about the Maker. Sten speaks rarely, and for that Alim is glad, but he feels a strange kinship with the big Qunari. They've both been broken in some irrevocable, crucial way, though they do not speak of their pasts.

It is as the broken doll Duncan took under his wing that Alim unthinkingly follows the traveler asking for help to her wagons, so glad he is to _help_ someone for once, after all the harm he's done…

And then he is fighting, summoning the powers within him that he despises for what they've caused. The assassins fall twitching to the bolts of electricity emanating from the storm cloud he has cast, and soon they are interrogating the elven leader of the ambush.

With dizzying suddenness Zevran pledges his oath and joins their party, but Alim thinks nothing of it. Another mouth to feed, another set of blades to kill, another pair of eyes to avoid meeting over the campfire.

What he doesn't expect is how hard it is to avoid Zevran's eyes. And hands.

Zevran seeks him out like a beacon, spouting all sorts of nonsense about "the benevolent mark" and wanting to get to know him better. Hopefully on a bedroll.

He gapes at this last bit, mind not processing meaning. It's rather jarring to hear spoken of so casually that which had been the subject of embarrassing fantasies alone in his bed in the Tower.

Seeing his surprise, Zevran relents and instead regales him with tales of his homeland, of Antiva and its strange lazy warmness and corruption that smells like leather and sickly rotting sweet decadence. His mind relaxes: he finds himself laughing with the assassin, the constant pressure in his chest lessening for just a moment.

Soon enough they share a bedroll; eventually a tent. The others in their party react with according amounts of surprise, amusement, and disgust, but he finds himself talking more even with them, at long last emerging from the bars the Circle Tower had placed around him.

He realizes that he has not thought about Jowan in a long time. Hours, days, even weeks without a thought. So much has happened since he left the Tower, a broken doll stolen away under Duncan's wing.

_Zevran _has happened.

It isn't love; at least, it's nothing like what he felt—_feels—_for Jowan. It's something less, and perhaps something more. The assassin woke him to needs he hadn't even realized he possessed, desires he never dreamed of having, the pure raw _sensation_ that leaves his head spinning and his mouth gaping, gasping for more.

Morrigan points out that he smiles much more these days: irritatingly so, in fact, though she admits that it is an improvement from his state at the start of their journey.

"You were such a typical Chantry-bred pawn. So glum and sensitive, like you felt guilty for existing," she had told him. "Zevran is revolting, to be sure, but at least you're growing a backbone. Just keep the… noise level down."

He thinks perhaps that is the biggest change: the guilt is buried. It will never be truly gone, but he can breathe without its shackles on his chest, can live selfishly and delight in that. And in the wild whirl of events and adventures, he almost forgets it.

But the guilt comes crashing back to the surface in a way he never expected.

They are creeping through the dungeon of Redcliffe castle, and the undead corpses cluster around a cell. Almost on reflex, he blasts them into oblivion with a well-aimed blast of flame, and as their ashes scatter to the ground, he hears the voice that he loves and curses.

"Who's there?" He hasn't heard him in months, but the pleading tenor is still there, more frantic and haggard than he remembered it yet still unmistakable.

"_Jowan?_"


	5. Nexus

He finds himself unable to breathe, pressed against the bars that divide him from the object of his former affections and current resentment. The other mage is pale beneath the blood that spatters him, circles under his eyes darker than they have ever been.

"Alim? Is that you?"

He wants so badly to read guilt on Jowan's face, to see some sign of remorse, but he can't interpret his expression. He doesn't trust himself to look at him honestly.

"How are you here?" Jowan asks when the elf says nothing.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, the clammy air of the dungeon rattling into his lungs. He feels Zevran's curious eyes boring into the back of his head.

"I should ask you the same question," he laughs, giddily, because he has no idea how he should react. He is relieved Jowan is alive, furious he betrayed him, confused his heart is pounding like it did a year ago in the human mage's presence. "I was conscripted as a Grey Warden after you… well…"

Jowan flushes with shame, turning his head to stare at the masonry rather than Alim's face. "I don't expect that you'll ever forgive me," he says at last, voice hoarse. "I don't deserve forgiveness. But tell me, please, what happened to Lily?"

So many things he wants to say—how he has forgiven him already in his relief at seeing him alive, how he has missed him, how he had hated him, how he felt and perhaps still feels—but all he can say is, "I'm sorry. They took her to Aeonar."

"No," Jowan sobs, and he crumples to the ground, almost touching Alim as he leans his head against the bars of his prison. "If it wasn't for me, she wouldn't have…"

He has no idea how to feel as his oldest friend weeps at his feet. _What of what you did to me?_ he wants to ask, but he hasn't the heart. Instead he turns to business.

"So why are you here, Jowan? You still haven't answered my question."

Jowan stands up, attempts to regain his composure. He takes a deep shuddering breath, knuckles white as he grips the bars. "I may have made... another mistake."

As Jowan confesses everything to him, he cannot bear to keep eye contact. He stares at the lock on the cell, realizes that it would be a simple matter for one outside to free him. Surprisingly enough, he does not fly to open the door; he does not rush to embrace his former best friend.

"You _poisoned_ Arl Eamon?" Alistair sputters indignantly from behind him. "On Loghain's orders?"

"I wanted to redeem myself!" Jowan wails, and the familiar frequency of his voice pierces Alim's chest, fills him with the same sweet longing of his days in the Tower.

"Jowan, what am I supposed to do with you?" he asks, for he truly does not know.

"Let me try to help," he pleads. "Let me try to make things right. Please."

And Alim is sixteen again, lovestruck and foolish and he cannot refuse him anything.

He opens the lock to the cage.


	6. End of the Line

There had been suffering, and it should have been followed by redemption.

A mage was needed to journey into the Fade, and so a mage went. First Enchanter Irving and some other senior enchanters had cast their runes even as Isolde clung to Teagan and muttered prayers under her breath.

Jowan, not meeting the eyes of any of the Circle Mages, had stood in the center of that circle, had collapsed to the floor as his spirit traversed the Fade, leaving Alim, nails digging into palms, to stare at his twitching body.

He didn't want to admit it, but he almost wished Jowan wouldn't wake up. It would have been so much easier for that book of his past to close completely.

But Jowan succeeded, as Alim knew he would, and patiently remained prisoner until the Warden's party, against all odds, retrieved the Sacred Ashes. With Eamon revived, Jowan stands beside Alim now, eyes fixed firmly on his own toes as he awaits judgment.

"Let him go," Alim tells an incredulous Eamon.

The noble's face is firm. "And unleash a maleficar upon a country at war?"

"He risked his life to save you and Connor," Alim's heart is hammering in his ears. Jowan just sinks his head lower.

"I understand, but his actions were the root of all this. I cannot let him free. Our options are either to execute him or turn him to the Circle's authority."

Alim turns to face the human mage and sees a broken man. Jowan is beyond caring about his fate now.

"Very well, let the Circle have him," and Alim knows he could have pushed harder, could have done more but it's meaningless when Jowan almost looks glad to face his own sentencing.

"Thank you," Jowan presses a hand against Alim's shoulder. "I know it's a bit late for this, but I am sorry. For everything."

And Alim finally sees the Jowan he had loved so pathetically in the Tower. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but the guards have already taken him away and there is nothing left of Alim's old life.


	7. Break

They are traveling from Orzammar to Denerim, though Alim hates looking at the landmark that lies along their path on the map. He doesn't voice this sentiment, but the members of the party throw him concerned glances as he grows more reclusive with each mile they are closer to the Tower.

But they desperately need to restock their lyrium and with reluctance Alim sits in the boat again as the Templar rows them to the other side. His old-prison-turned-slaughtering-ground looms in through the mist of the lake, and it occurs to him that the outside of the Tower is still a relatively unfamiliar sight. For him the Tower is memories of loneliness and constant scrutiny and high windows placed far beyond reach.

He almost automatically represses his most obvious association of the Tower. He had washed his hands of that, or so he still tells himself.

Staring up at the almost endless stone walls, with a start he recognizes the window of the room he and Jowan had shared. There is its curiously twisted archway, a memento from one of Jowan's early magical fiascos. The memory brings a smile that dies quickly on his lips.

He never did hear back from Irving as to Jowan's fate.

Zevran, seated beside him, does not miss his brooding. But it is not Zevran's nature to pry, so he merely rests a hand on Alim's knee and they sit in silence for the rest of the ride.

He goes straight to the Templar quartermaster, selecting what he needs as quickly as possible. When he asks for more runes he is directed to the stockroom.

There is a man with a shaved head and his back turned toward them as he sorts the runes into neat little piles.

"Owain?" Alim hesitantly calls out, not sure if he's recognized the Tranquil.

The man turns and Alim's breath dies in his throat.

Jowan.

"Owain is servicing the other stockroom presently," and it is a sick joke to hear Jowan's voice like this. There is no trace of his whining lilt, no high-pitched inflections, only a cool evenness. "May I help you in the meantime?"

His eyes blur and it is all he can do to remain on his feet. "Jowan, don't you know me?"

A crisp nod in affirmative. "Yes, I know you. Alim Surana, Circle Mage and present Grey Warden." The cold formality with which he recites his name sends chills down Alim's spine. "You appear to be distressed."

Distressed. Alim isn't sure whether to howl with laughter or anguish. He settles on staring at Jowan's face. The proudly cultivated black stubble is gone without a trace, leaving his bloodless cheeks bare.

"There is something I have to give to you," Jowan says. Each word that comes out of that passionless mouth twists Alim's gut a bit further.

"Here," he hands him a sealed parchment. "It is a letter I wrote to you before I underwent the Rite of Tranquility. My old self had put it in a place that obstructed my duties." And Jowan turns back to his work, separating endless runes with inhuman patience.

With shaking hands Alim breaks the seal, glad that he left his companions on the first floor of the tower.

_Alim,_

_I know nothing I say will mean anything at this point, but I still have to say it._

_I have wronged you past the point of forgiveness yet you still stood up for me. I don't deserve to claim this, but you have been a true friend._

_Tonight I'm going to be made Tranquil. Funny how it's finally happening despite everything. But this time I accept my fate freely. I chose my own mistakes, and I suppose I can't run from the consequences anymore._

_If you're still reading this, I may as well ask. Please, if you ever can, find a way to help Lily. I have done her as much wrong as I have to you; she doesn't deserve Aeonar. You've saved the entire Circle Tower – surely you can do something to persuade them._

_If not, then may the Maker have mercy on her soul and mine._

_Jowan_

He crumples the letter in his hands, hotness stinging at the back of his eyes. The tears flow out despite his attempts to hold them back, and he sobs once or twice. Jowan does not pause in his work as he carefully traces runes with precision he had never had.

Later, when they are about to leave, he remembers Jowan's last request and asks Irving about Lily. The way to Aeonar is long, and known only by a few, the Enchanter tells him, and certainly there is no time and no one to spare to guide him there. Besides, there are more important matters to attend to and Lily earned her punishment, Irving insists.

Alim nods thoughtlessly and Zevran's hand on his back herds him away.

As the Templar rows them to the other side, Alim watches the Tower slowly recede into the fog until it is but a shadow behind its veil of mist.


	8. Reflection

It is only when they return to their camp across the waters that his mind finally processes what has happened. He stumbles away from the others, desperately hoping they know not to follow him.

He can see nothing but the face of that… _thing_… that was Jowan but was not Jowan. The not-Jowan's empty eyes, calmly neutral expression, his level voice… Maker, they had even shaved his head and that ridiculous stubble he was always so proud of.

Suddenly he cannot stand, and he kneels as he retches into a bush, dry heaving long after the contents of his stomach have long since emptied. The salt of his tears mixes with bitter bile in his throat, and soon he is prone on the cool grass, fingers digging into the yielding mud, feeling moisture seep into his robes.

He staggers to the lakeshore, submerging himself in icy coldness. It stings his aching flesh, but it is sensation, and he cannot have enough of it. He ducks his head beneath the surface, the chill sending powerful shivers throughout his whole body. But soon the strong sensation of cold turns into a distant numbness.

He wonders if this is how Jowan feels now.

The frigid waters are suddenly repulsive, and he fights his way back to the shore, wet robes clinging miserably to his shivering form. A distant light shines from between the trees, and he makes his way back to the campfire.

They all watch him carefully when he huddles next to the fire, though they try to hide it—badly. He pretends not to see the disdain in Sten's eyes, the scorn in the curl of Morrigan's lip. When Alistair opens and closes his mouth several times the way he does before broaching an uncomfortable subject, the elven mage abruptly develops a keen interest in a magical text he had already read several times through. He doesn't even want to think about the pity Leliana exudes, or the self-righteousness sure to come from Wynne.

Only Zevran stares directly at him. It's not his usual lurid stare; there is something sad in the set of his mouth, but thankfully there is no pity.

He kisses Zevran with half-thawed lips, hungrily feeling the assassin's warm and pliant ones. He practically drags him to their shared tent, already beginning to loosen the many buckles of his leather armor.

Soon they are in privacy and his mage robes lie atop Zevran's discarded armor. He worships Zevran's warm skin with his mouth and hands, inhaling his vaguely spicy heady scent. He wants to lose himself, lose himself in that fervor of passion, in Zevran's arms, so strong and lean-muscled and full of _life—_

"Enough," Zevran says, and holds him at arm's length. He hangs suspended against the assassin's firm hands, face flushed and gasping for more.

"As appealing as it may seem, this isn't good for you." The corners of Zevran's mouth tighten briefly as he gently allows him closer. "Even I am not good enough to simply lust your guilt away."

Hurt, he looks into the other elf's eyes and is surprised to see a slight mistiness in them. But of course.

_Rinna_.

Of course Zevran knows how he feels, knows how it is to destroy the one he loves. Zevran knows not to tell him that it's not his fault, that he couldn't have prevented it and other meaningless lies.

He just brings him into a chaste embrace, letting him cry into his muscled shoulder.

"I brought him to this," he sobs against the curve of Zevran's neck. "I loved him, and now he's worse than dead." His words are useless, trite, but they can't help bursting forth from him.

Zevran says nothing, just gently strokes his hair and combs it with his fingers. He finally cries himself to sleep, pale, tear-streaked face resting against Zevran's tanned chest. He doesn't feel it when Zevran wipes his tears away with his thumb, doesn't hear Zevran's low sigh as he wraps his arm around the slim mage and holds him for the rest of the night.


End file.
